CHAPTER 490: CHAPTER 490

SEA CALENDAR YEAR 1507

Months passed like fleeting shadows across the blood-stained seas of the New World. Though peace returned on the surface, beneath the waves, chaos churned ever darker.

Kaido, the Emperor of Beasts, had entrenched himself atop the throne of the Yonko. With the power of the World Times’ propaganda machine and the cautious silence of the World Government, his dominance was solidified. Yet beneath this veneer of recognition lay a trail of carnage. Every diplomatic envoy sent by the Celestial Elders to reforge ties with Kaido was annihilated without mercy.

Their ships returned as shattered hulls—or not at all. One by one, the Elders realized a hard truth: a permanent rift had been carved between Kaido and the World Government, forged in blood and sealed by wrath. Kaido was no longer a tool to be used—he was a storm, sovereign and untamed.

Meanwhile, the Bloodsteel Pirates, under the ruthless yet calculated command of Captain Lachlann, consolidated their dominion. Their flag—crimson and iron—flew across dozens of isles, their grip unwavering. Though minor skirmishes erupted with the Marines, they were little more than sparks against the steel wall Lachlann had built. No major conflicts erupted, and his forces remained coiled like a serpent, watching, waiting. Expansion was halted, but not forgotten.

The Marines, now bolstered by the legendary Monkey D. Garp, had made bold strides into the New World. With the approval of Fleet Admiral Sengoku, a dozen fortified Marine Divisions were established, dotting the map like sentinels. But Sengoku, ever the tactician, ensured that not a single outpost dared infringe upon Yonko territory. It was an unspoken pact between giants—a cold war waged with glances instead of guns, where a single misstep could ignite a global inferno.

In contrast, the Donquixote Pirates had vanished into the heart of their territory. Once flamboyant and loud, they now moved like phantoms beneath the waves. Whispers told of a brutal clash with the Beast Pirates that left their forces gutted and broken. Whatever truth lay behind the rumors, one thing was clear—Donquixote Doflamingo was licking his wounds.

Yet even weakened, his waters remained deathtraps. Sea Kings swarmed his borders, devouring any who dared to test his silence. Those foolish enough to venture near found only death, their bones scattered beneath the tides.

Then there was the seaquake that was Whitebeard. Furious and relentless, the old titan pursued vengeance like a tempest. One of the Shichibukai, the enigmatic François, had assassinated several of his division commanders, and Whitebeard’s wrath was absolute.

For the first time in his reign, a bounty was publicly issued—not by the World Government, but by Whitebeard himself. A king had spoken, and the world listened. Yet despite the enormous sum and the fevered hunt, François remained a ghost. No sightings. No whispers. Only rumors and the silence of the hunted.

****

"The seas may look calm these days... but I can feel it in my bones—they’re more dangerous now than ever before."

Naguri’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet morning, his calloused fingers turning the pages of the latest World Times. He sat on the table near to the counter inside Party’s Bar, basking in the rare comfort of a warm meal and a peaceful sunrise—luxuries he only permitted himself because of my persistent urging. It was a small act of gratitude, for the man who had once guided young Ace and Sabo when they needed it most.

Despite the passing years, Naguri still kept his distance from the village. The presence of Shanks and the Red-Haired Pirates, who had only recently departed for the New World, had stirred up ghosts from his past—memories of a lost crew, of debts unpaid.

He never forgot Roger sparing his life, but the pain of watching his comrades fall never truly faded. So when he’d glimpsed Shanks and Buggy upon their brief stopover, he’d quietly retreated to the forest, choosing solitude over confrontation.

And I couldn’t deny it—even for someone not known for overwhelming strength, Naguri possessed a unique, almost philosophical approach to Haki. Observing him had sparked new ideas in me, a deeper understanding of how Haki could be applied—not just as a weapon, but as an extension of the self.

With Mihawk gone—having entrusted Zoro to me before hitching a ride back to the New World with the Red-Haired Pirates—I had temporarily taken over the training of Ace, Sabo, Kuina, and Zoro. In tandem, Naguri would share his hard-earned insights, a master of the quiet arts passing wisdom to a new generation.

In return for his teachings, I upheld a daily ritual: buying him his breakfast.

"You should know better than anyone, Naguri-san," I said, sipping the rich, bitter coffee Makino had brewed upon my request. "The calmer the sea looks... the worse the storm beneath. And the longer it sleeps, the more violent the awakening."

He grunted in agreement, eyes never leaving the paper. Then he asked—quiet, but deliberate:

"Are you sure you want to be here... when Garp returns? He is almost at the door, you know."

He didn’t need to say the name. My Observation Haki had detected him miles before he arrived. His presence was like a blazing beacon, completely unrestrained. And I was certain—he felt mine too. Neither of us had made any effort to hide.

Suddenly, the silence shattered.

The front doors to Party’s Bar exploded open with a violent crash, the wooden panels flying off their hinges and clattering to the floor. Behind the bar, Makino and Agatha merely sighed, already knowing exactly who was responsible.

"YOU FILTHY PIRATE SCUM! HOW DARE YOU—"

A booming voice roared like thunder through the tavern as Vice Admiral Garp stormed in with theatrical fury, fists clenched and voice echoing like a cannon blast. But there was no anger behind it—only that familiar, mischievous glint in his eye. The same one I remembered from the old days.

Right behind him, moving like a shadow, was Bogard, ever silent and composed, his long coat fluttering behind him. He looked worn; the stress of recent months was etched into the lines around his eyes.

The Marine forces had been stretched thin defending their new outposts in the New World, and Bogard had become the unseen pillar reinforcing them against ambitious pirates eager to carve their names into the world.

Even Garp hadn’t been spared from the frontlines. In the last few months alone, he had clashed with Scarlett Lachlann—the Yonko of Iron and Blood—more than half a dozen times. Each encounter a brutal, drawn-out duel. Lachlann struck like lightning, tearing through a different base each time before retreating just as swiftly.

Fleet Admiral Sengoku, cautious as ever, had forbidden pursuit, instructing Garp to remain on defensive watch. It was a bitter pill for a man like him to swallow—but duty was duty.

"You... Rosinante! What are you doing here, you little bastard?! Didn’t I beat enough sense into you at Sabaody?!"

Garp raised a massive fist, charging forward like a bull preparing to deliver a brawl. I didn’t even flinch. Casually, I lifted my coffee mug.

"Good to see you too, Garp-sensei."

Bogard received a far more formal greeting—a nod of respect he returned with his characteristic quiet dignity.

Then—"Ji-jiiiii!!!"

A shriek erupted from the kitchen. A blur of motion followed. Ace, now five, came bolting out, dragging little Luffy by the hand. Their faces lit up like fireworks as they saw their grandfather for the first time in almost a year. Luffy stumbled slightly behind, but both were fast—fast enough to reach Garp in seconds.

With a booming laugh, Garp dropped his faux anger and swept the boys into his arms.

"Bwahahahaha! My little hellions! Look how much you’ve grown!"

He lifted them effortlessly, one in each arm, his laughter shaking the tavern walls. His eyes, weathered but bright, then landed on the third child, standing off to the side.

Sabo.

The boy hesitated, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes held longing but also doubt—like a boy watching a scene he wasn’t sure he belonged in. Garp turned, one brow raising.

"Hah? What are you waiting for, kid?"

He crouched slightly, patting his shoulder with a grin. Sabo froze, staring. The old man’s expression didn’t waver. No mockery. No force. Just open arms.

Then, slowly—uncertain at first—Sabo moved. He climbed up onto Garp’s shoulder, his face inching from guarded to beaming.

"That’s more like it!" Garp laughed, slapping his thigh. "Now I’ve got all my grandsons together! Try and stop me now, world!"

"Kuina... do you know who that old man is?" Zoro leaned in close, shoveling another mouthful of porridge into his mouth, eyes never once leaving the grizzled man who had just crashed through the tavern like a hurricane.

"He’s scolding your master like it’s nothing..." he added, voice tinged with disbelief.

But Kuina didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked onto the old man too—but not with suspicion like Zoro’s. No... hers gleamed with curiosity. She’d never seen her master—so composed, so fearsome in battle—show this level of respect toward anyone. That alone made this stranger someone worth remembering.

Garp plopped himself heavily onto the bench beside us, the wood groaning beneath the weight of a man who carried both legend and burden on his shoulders. Ace and Sabo had already slid down from his arms to the table, chattering animatedly, while Luffy still clung to his grandfather’s neck like a sleepy sloth, drooling into his shoulder. Garp casually raised a brow at the two unfamiliar children seated nearby.

"So who are these little ones then?" he asked, his voice more curious than gruff.

I nodded toward Kuina and Zoro, gesturing for them to come closer. They did so cautiously, bowls still in hand, eyes wide and alert as they approached.

"This here is Shimotsuki Kuina, my second official apprentice," I began, my tone respectful. "And this is Kozuki Zoro."

As I introduced them, I noticed the faint twitch in Garp’s brow. His eyes lingered for a split second longer on the names—Shimotsuki, and more notably, Kozuki. Even Bogard, who had just sat down after ordering breakfast, paused mid-motion, his eyes flicking briefly toward the green-haired boy.

Neither man commented. They understood. If I wanted to speak on those names, I would. And if not, the matter was left alone. That was the silent code among warriors who’d seen too much. I turned to Kuina and said with a grin.

"This loud-mouthed old man? He’s not just some cranky geezer—he’s your master’s master. When it comes to Haki, there’s no one I know who teaches it better. Not even me."

Garp let my jab slide, a grin stretching across his scarred face. He studied the children, eyes sharp beneath his bushy brows. In a single glance, he could tell—these weren’t ordinary brats playing pretend with sticks. Their eyes held the weight of discipline. Their stances, even while relaxed, hinted at months of training. They were the seeds of warriors.

"Looks like you’ve been working them hard." Garp smirked.

Before I could reply, Zoro cut in bluntly, pointing his spoon in Garp’s direction.

"Old man... are you stronger than him?"

The question was so direct, so innocent, that even Bogard let out a rare chuckle. Garp barked a booming laugh, flexing one massive arm with exaggerated bravado.

"Bwahahaha....Stronger than him? Kid, last time we fought, I used his face to mop the floor at Sabaody!"

He turned to me, grinning like a man who lived for chaos.

"And now you’re passing on your half-baked knowledge to these brats? And dragging my grandsons into your madness too? You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that!"

I rolled my eyes and sipped my coffee, ignoring the jab. Just because I acknowledged Garp as a better Haki instructor didn’t mean I was about to let him gloat too much. Still... the kids had no idea what they were inviting into their lives. Zoro, completely unfazed, spoke again.

"Can you teach us, old man?"

His voice was steady, resolute—not born from arrogance, but hunger. He had trained hard, yet Kuina still remained his better. He didn’t resent it. If anything, it pushed him harder. And Mihawk’s words echoed in his mind still: "Don’t let pride blind you. Learn from anyone who can sharpen your blade."

Kuina blinked in surprise. Zoro never asked anyone for anything. That made her look at Garp even more closely.

"Jiji... will you train us too?" Ace piped up eagerly, stars in his eyes.

He’d overheard it all, and now he burned with excitement. If his grandfather agreed to train them, this old man had once rivaled the Pirate King—his father—then what kind of training could he possibly offer?

I nearly dropped my cup.

"You kids are insane..." I muttered under my breath, watching in horror as these poor fools stepped willingly into the jaws of hell. Garp turned to me, face alight with mischief.

"Well, what do you say, brat? Should I whip these runts into shape?"

I shrugged, resigned.

"If they want to learn, I’m not stopping them. But Zoro, Kuina—listen to me. If you agree to this, there’s no quitting halfway. Once you start with this old monster... you finish."

The two exchanged a glance, then looked back at me like I was overreacting.

"Tch. It can’t be worse than your training," Zoro muttered under his breath.

"Yeah," Kuina added, "how much worse can it be, Master...?"

I stared at them. Slowly shook my head. They had no idea what they were in for. Garp’s grin widened. His aura surged for just a moment—a brief but thunderous glimpse of what lay beneath the goofy facade. Even the floor creaked under the pressure. It was like the room had dropped a few degrees colder.

"Heh... Let’s see if you’re still saying that after day one."

And just like that, the tides of fate shifted once more—four young souls gathered under one roof, their paths unknowingly intertwining under the shadow of one of the strongest men the seas had ever known. Training was about to become a nightmare. And they had no one to blame but themselves.

****

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, and already the mountain echoed with the anguished cries of regret. Four small figures writhed, strained, and crawled their way through hell.

Sabo, whose sense of self-preservation often exceeded his courage, was the first to crack. He collapsed onto the dirt, panting, tears clinging to the corners of his eyes as he tried to drag himself away from the clearing like a prisoner attempting escape.

"Grandpa Garp! Please! I didn’t sign up for this! It was all Ace’s fault—I never agreed to this madness!"

His tiny limbs gave out, trembling from the weight of the boulder he had been forced to haul uphill. His complaints fell on deaf ears. No—worse—they reached ears that laughed.

"BWAAHAHAHA! If you’ve got enough breath to whine, you’ve got enough to give me another set!"

Garp roared from the edge of the clearing, casually hefting Sabo into the air with one hand and tossing him back into the center like a sack of flour. "One hundred more pushups if you stop again...! Or do you want me to help motivate you?"

Sabo whimpered, realizing with a growing sense of horror that the old man wasn’t joking.

From my perch on a high branch, I watched it all unfold with a mix of grim amusement and nostalgic dread. I had lived through this madness once—this precise stretch of wilderness, this very mountain, under the same terrifying tutelage.

But even then, I had been ten years old. These kids were five.

And yet... Garp wasn’t reckless. There was no randomness to the cruelty. His brutal regime pushed them to the razor’s edge—but never over. He knew exactly how far each of them could be pushed before they broke.

To outsiders, this was barbaric. To me... it was perfectly calculated torment.

Kuina, drenched in sweat, her training gi stuck to her skin, struggled beneath the weight of a massive boulder strapped to her back as she crawled uphill—her knees shaking, her arms raw and bloodied. Her body begged her to stop.

But her will—fueled by pride and determination—screamed louder. She glanced sideways, watching Zoro just ahead of her, pushing forward, his face twisted in agony.

Zoro, even younger than the rest, had refused to show weakness. His fists bled. His lips bled. And yet he bit down harder, forcing himself to move. He had suggested training under Garp. He would not be the first to fall.

Meanwhile, Ace cursed aloud, his voice hoarse but defiant. He stumbled, then forced himself back up, fury and pride coiling inside him like a storm.

Their young minds didn’t fully understand Haki yet—but they were beginning to understand resolve. The will to keep moving forward, even when every cell in your body screamed at you to stop.

Then, suddenly... A deep thud echoed across the mountaintop, silencing everything.

I looked up.

"Hey, brat," Garp called to me with a grin. "You just gonna sit there like a lazy scarecrow while these little ones bleed?"

I dropped from the tree branch, cracking the earth beneath my feet as I landed. "If I start punching like old times, I might end up erasing the mountain, old man," I said, rotating my shoulders with deliberate ease.

"BWAAHAHAHA! That’s the spirit!"

Then, without warning, Garp’s gaze shifted to the distant sea—his Observation Haki reaching out with surgical precision. I felt it too. Something... Incoming. A high-pitched whistle. A blur on the horizon.

A massive harpoon—its steel gleaming in the early light—came hurtling toward us like a god’s javelin. Only Garp’s ship will have such massive harpoons; to others it may look like madness, but in Garp’s hands these things were like the missiles of death.

With one hand, Garp caught it mid-air, his body barely shifting. The sheer size of the weapon made it look absurd in his grasp. He drove it into the earth. A metallic clang rang out like a bell of challenge.

"Whoever puts a dent in this thing first... wins."

He didn’t explain what the rules of the game were. He didn’t need to. We both knew the rules.

I coated the harpoon in a thin layer of jet-black Haki, as Garp launched the first punch. I followed an instant later as he infused it with his haki at the moment of contact, striking from the opposite side.

And then the mountain held its breath. We struck, again and again, in perfect alternating rhythm—our fists meeting the metal stake with thunderous precision as we infused it with armament haki to make sure the opponent’s strike didn’t rupture the metal.

Each blow infused the stake with Armament Haki, timed to the microsecond. One punch to reinforce. The next to counter. One to pressure. The next to absorb. To the children, it was incomprehensible.

Their pain, their exhaustion, even the sharp sting of overworked muscles faded as their gazes locked onto the spectacle before them.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Thousands of strikes rained down on the steel harpoon in under a minute. The metal trembled, screamed, but did not yield.

Only the harmony of alternating Haki infusion kept it from shattering into dust. A single misstep—a second too slow, too fast, or too imbalanced—and the stake would disintegrate under the pressure.

Bare fists.

No gloves. No weapons. Just two monsters... speaking the language of gods through knuckles and spirit. Sweat poured from my forehead, but my rhythm never broke as the speed picked as a storm of punches rained down.

Garp’s grin widened with every strike, a glint of pride flashing behind his usual madness. This wasn’t a battle. It was a lesson.

"Watch closely," I said without looking, sweat dripping from my chin, "This is what true Haki control looks like at the very pinnacle. Not just strength. Not just will. But the harmony between both opponents. Once you climb to a sufficiently high level, all it would take is a split second to decide the winner."

The children didn’t blink. Even through the haze of exhaustion, through the pain wracking their limbs—they watched, transfixed, as two titans clashed not in chaos, but in absolute synchrony.

This wasn’t training. It was an awakening.

And somewhere deep inside their small, exhausted bodies, something lit a spark.

A silent promise: "Someday... I’ll reach that level too."